


Son of Iron Wood

by ellfie



Series: Children Not Monsters [4]
Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Gen, because fen loves his momma, this was written for mother's day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellfie/pseuds/ellfie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angrboda had never been the softest of mothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son of Iron Wood

Angrboda had never been the softest of mothers. She really couldn’t, not as a Jotun chief of the other Iron Wood witches. Even her reputation was of a cold, powerful, terrifying witch of the Iron Wood.

Yet, that did not mean she did not kiss her son when he was in pain, or sing him lullabies, or take care of him when he was ill. Chief witch or not, she did all this and more. Just because she was not  _soft,_ did not make her any less of a mother.

No, Fenrir was not coddled. If anyone coddled him, it was his father. Whenever the pup would jump into too-deep snow drifts, disappear completely from view as if Jotunheimr itself swallowed him, it was Angrboda who held Loki back, telling him to wait just a moment longer, and then smiled when the wolf pup popped back out of the drift on his own.

Fenrir had heard them arguing (not a rare occurrence) once about him. His father was worried about him, worried that his mother wasn’t giving him the help he needed when he needed it, that they were his  _parents_ and they should act like it and protect their children.

"I  _am_ protecting him, Loki,” Angrboda hissed back, the entire argument thrown at one another under their breaths in hope they wouldn’t wake their supposedly sleeping child. “He is not going to be a pup forever. And you may not realize it, with how much you go off on your adventures with Oden to Asgard and Midgard and all the branches of Yggdrasil, but Jotunheimr is not for the weak. He is going to have to learn how to take care of himself, and coddling is not going to help that. He is loved, he knows that, but he needs to be independent.”

"Now? Angrboda, he’s only—"

“ _Now._  When else? When he’s too old for the lessons to set in? When something else has already happened while we weren’t around, because he did not know how to protect himself? Or when Asgard discovers their Trickster God has coupled with a witch and created a child they will consider a monster? Now, Loki.”

So, no, Fenrir never expected the world to be fed to him on a silver platter. If fed to him at all. In fact, he learned from an early age that being fed meant hunting in the first place. His mother accompanied him on his first hunt, teaching him all he needed to know — how to distinguish scents based on the minutest of details, when to pounce, when to cut your losses, how to fell even the largest of beasts quietly and efficiently. His father taught him as well, of hunts from different perspectives, of magic and illusions, but his mother taught him about the harsh realities, and never flinched from them.

In hindsight, Fenrir wondered if his mother had always known her children would be taken from her. Would be thrown to the elements on their own, so it would only be their own strength by which they could survive, and that that was why she had made sure Fenrir could fend for himself before he could even properly howl.

He never regretted it. It had been fun for the pup, complete attention, and the praise he earned when completing a task was always encouraging. It was all he knew. He never knew other families, other children besides his own siblings to make any comparisons. Later, after years of watching families on Midgard, he sometimes wondered if he would’ve preferred that sort of life, being held and coddled for months, years before one could even walk. Far more than that before one could even hope to survive on his own. And then he realized, no. He was not  _weak._ He was a wolf. His mother had always known that, and had prepared him for a life as a wolf. Prepared him for the discrimination he would receive.

But she had always made it clear that he was  _her son._ Wolf, witch, serpent, giant — none of that mattered when it came to her love. She still stroked his fur, pulled him into her embrace when he feared, was always there to listen and help, and fiercely protected him when he could not protect himself.

Every night, she would remind him.  _You are a strong, mighty wolf. But more importantly, you are my son. A son of Iron Wood. Whatever happens, remember you are as loved as you are strong._

As Fenrir stared down at the ground, centuries later, watching the blood and saliva dripping down between his paws, he found it increasingly more difficult to remember any of that.


End file.
